


Signs of Seals, Delivered

by MeloAnnechen



Category: Get Your Man (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merfolk, Don't copy to another website, Environmental Conservation, Francis’s Scar is Charles’s Fault, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, MerMay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 12:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18917188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeloAnnechen/pseuds/MeloAnnechen
Summary: Leopard seals are not usually found in the Arctic.





	Signs of Seals, Delivered

**Author's Note:**

> Well... according to my notes, I've been working on this story since 2015. Hideously slow, I know. There may be another chapter. It may be ready by _next_ May.

Wildlife Enforcement Officer MacKenzie sighed quietly, scanning the ice field, counting the seals in the protected area. _The numbers are up, but not by enough,_ he thought as he recorded the tally. _The projections should not be off by this much, we must have missed something in the survey…._ A movement at the rock outcropping caught his eye. 

“A leopard seal? What are you doing on this side of the planet?” Francis stowed his gear, then got moving to get a closer look.

The officer did not want to startle the seal, so he was watching out for the newcomer more than his footing. That was why he was not stable when the one he was tracking had another surprise for him.

“You aren’t a seal!” he yelped, as the rock under his foot shifted, and he tumbled from the boulder.

~~~~~~

Francis woke to the setting sun, lying on his sleeping bag, with something cold and damp pressed to the back of his head, a dull pain across his nose, and his leg… “ohhhhhh,” he breathed out, the pain of the gash in his leg competing with the pleasurable sensation of gentle hands and… tongue? Something felt nice on his thigh.

“ _Shh, fanacht fós, tá tú gortaithe fós_ ,” the dark-haired man murmured, and continued his ministrations.

“I must’ve hit my head pretty hard,” Francis murmured, gently lowering his head back to the pillow. The pain would be an indication of actual injuries, but a bare-chested man out on the ice field was probably his concussion-addled brain and touch-starved subconscious colluding. 

“Ah, English - too long since on this tongue,” the voice was rich and melodious, warm with good humor. “This one hast been long away from landpods.”

“Landpods?” Francis raised his head again, and focused on the man, finally noticing the lower half of him actually was a seal. “Oh. You aren’t a hallucination.”

“Shh. Rest,” the merman laid a hand on Francis’s chest, urging him to lie back. After he applied a poultice of what looked to be perhaps seaweed, his rescuer tucked Francis up in his sleeping bag, and curled in close. “Sleep, this one watches.”

“Need to call in,” Francis reached an arm to his pack, “let them know I’m not dead on the ice.”

A hand gripped his wrist, strong enough to restrain him, but with care to not cause more bruising than his fall had earned him. “Speak not of this one.” It was part order, part plea, but those brilliant deep-blue eyes held Francis’s attention.

“No, I will not tell them I have company,” he affirmed, thinking _they’ll pull me in for substance testing if I do_ , but when he pulled his satellite phone out of the pack, the screen was cracked and the body bent, “...and I will not tell them anything for a while.” Returning it to the pack, “The search team will probably be sent out a couple hours after sunrise.”

“This one,” and something shifted in the merman’s expression, making it warmer, softer. He murmured, “will stay, keep watch, until they come close, you will rest now.” 

~~~~~~

Francis woke to the sound of a helicopter landing nearby. Blinking in the faint pre-dawn light, there was no trace of his companion, but the aches of his injuries were not imagined. 

The crunch of boots on the icy rocks preceded his supervisor coming into view. “If you wanted a campout on the ice, you didn’t need to go to the extreme of crushing your phone. Those things are expensive.”

“Wasn’t what I intended, Chief,” Francis answered, “It broke when it broke my fall.”

“Good thing the monitoring station had your last location when the phone dropped off the grid. You didn’t show up last night, we were able to get here at first light to start the search. Keeping your lantern on helped us find you from the air.”

“Oh, I didn’t remember doing that,” Francis twisted his head about, to look at his pack.

Chief crouched down with his flashlight, “Hit your head that hard, did you? Let’s get you in the chopper and back to base.”

“Leg injury, too. I haven’t tried standing on it yet.” Francis unzipped his sleeping bag to check the damage, and blinked. Instead of the seaweed compress, he found his spare shirt wrapped around his leg. _Did I imagine the whole thing?_ He frowned, looking out across the ice. 

Strapped into a litter, Francis was unable to watch the landscape for his caretaker, and instead paid attention to the crew. They showed no signs of seeing anything unusual on the way back to the station.

It was something on his mind as he fretted through his forty-eight hour convalescence. Dr Chamberlin asked him several times about how he had treated his injuries by himself, and he truthfully told her he did not remember doing anything. The concussion was blamed for the hole in his memory, yet he was not so sure the seal-man was a hallucination. 

As soon as he was discharged from the clinic to his quarters, he slowly went through his pack. Other than the phone and a severe dent in his mess kit, his equipment had come through mostly unscathed. Oddly enough, he seemed to be missing two shirts; the one that had been used as a bandage had been tossed in the biohazard waste after it was cut from his leg, but the other one was a puzzle. “I was wearing the red thermal Henley when I fell, I thought…” He was also missing a waterproof bag but everything else was in its place.

Francis searched through the pack, then his dresser, muttering, “At least I thought I was wearing it this patrol….” The search turned up nothing of the shirt, even when he checked his laundry bag. He did turn up an odd shell, beautiful in its opalescent shine, tucked into the pocket of one of his pairs of trousers, leaving him very puzzled.

At the end of the week, Chief called him into the office. “I’ve been looking over your report, and I agree that there’s something that just doesn’t add up,” he sighed, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Esme’s going to have my hide for this, but do you feel strong enough to take one of the snowmobiles out?”

Francis winced at the use of Dr Chamberlain’s first name. That usually meant Chief was too tired to watch his words. “I probably could, but I’d probably still have to take it slow. It would be better if I could take one of the trailers with me. I could stay out longer that way, make it a full circuit.”

“That would work, you would have the better insulation at night in the trailer, and cover more ground.” Chief sighed and replaced his glasses, “I’ll take the heat from Doc. We needed you out on patrol three days ago, stretched thin as we are.”

His supervisor’s tone caught Francis’s ear, “There haven’t been any reports of unauthorized hunts, have there?”

 

“No sightings of the usual suspects, no blood on the ice, no vehicle transponders where they ought not be, and the tribal council issued fewer traditional hunt permits this year. But the numbers are still lower than the projections, and we don’t know why.” The barest hints of worry and frustration threaded under the senior officer’s exhaustion.

As he drove out to the pod’s territory, Francis had an uncomfortable thought. Leopard seals are known to hunt smaller seals in other environments, could he really….He shook his head, _If it is the way of the food chain, that’s one thing, but an invasive species needs to be assessed and addressed._

He used his ski poles to provide stability for his healing leg as he climbed the rocky outcropping, finally settling on a steady boulder to start his counts. Near where he had fallen before, there were new marks, looking a bit like the runes he saw in Viking movies, but he had no idea if they were actually written language. He took some pictures of it with his phone to try to translate it later, then settled in to check the numbers on the ice.

He was interrupted on his third count by a musical voice, “You are too early, not half-healed could you be.”

Lowering his binoculars, Francis turned to address the seal-man. “We’re short handed, and the seal pods are not recovering as they should.”

“Aye, it is a worry on both sides of the ice,” he said, rolling as if to bask in the weak early spring sunlight. “This one is sent by his pod to find our cousins, only to search in vain for signs of them.” 

“Well, that gives half an answer to an uncomfortable question,” Francis said.

“What, that there were new hunters who should not be here? Nay, the bounty here should prevent that,” the sealman pointed with his chin behind them, where two net bags carried dozens of fish. “Still, the begetting is not fruitful, as it has been in the past. Our songs do not tell of a time such as this. This one has a thought of why, but no way to know if the plenty has become poison.”

“Good idea; I can take some of the fish to the lab for testing when I return, if you would be willing to part with a sample.” He held out his hand, “MacKenzie, from the Canadian Wildlife Agency office out of Blue Snow Falls.”

The sealman grasped Francis’s wrist firmly, causing him to grasp the other’s wrist in reflex,”This one is called Séarlas. The home pod is… far distant.”

“If your pod is from the same part of the world as the leopard seals, you are quite a long way from home.” Francis studied Séarlas a moment before asking, “Why did you help me? It had to be dangerous for you.”

“You seemed to be a protector,” and the seal man smiled with a twinkle in his eye, “and you are a pleasing sight.”

Francis blushed under his windburned cheeks. “I, ah, well. Thank you.” He attempted to regain his equilibrium, but as he raised his binoculars to scan the pod, he murmured, “I thought I dreamed you, before the helicopter came.” He cleared his throat, “I did find a shell in my pack that I don’t remember collecting.”

“Is it to your liking?”

“It’s beautiful.” Francis brought it out of his pocket, and caressed the edge with his thumb, “Did you mean to leave it with me?” he asked, quietly.

“This one would like to have given you more, but you were not in the best condition for that,” Séarlas hummed to himself, “Especially since you were not asked properly if you had a mate.”

Francis whimpered, blushing furiously, before he answered, “N-no, I don’t, I - erm - you?”

Séarlas chuckled, “Are you asking this one to be your mate?”

“I-I-I,” Francis stuttered.

“Perhaps we should get to know each other, first.”

“YES! Ah, yes, getting to know you would be,” Francis took a moment to breathe, “very good. If we were to, perhaps, work together to find out why the harp seals are not growing in numbers, and see if we can find traces of your cousins, maybe that would be okay?”

“Yes, that would be a good endeavor.”

Francis’s normal patrol usually was completed in four days, but his injuries and the need to use the snowmobile rather than his skis meant he was only a third of the way through his patrol by the end of the week. Upside of his injury was that with the snowmobile also meant he was able to take along more equipment. The solar panels powering the laptop with the satellite connection made daily check-ins with the base possible.

“I’m not seeing any signs of increased predation out here, sir. Quite the opposite, in fact,” he said, forcing himself to focus only on the screen, and not look up at Séarlas during the connection. “Even the number of polar bear kills is down.”

Chief took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, “We got a new report in from Woods Hole, and there’s no deviation in the ocean currents or temperatures that match the deviation in seal numbers, at least not yet.”

Francis caught the movement of Séarlas’s head at that, and asked, “Have they had anyone out testing the fish for deviations?”

“Yes, but those reports aren’t in yet.” Chief replaced his glasses, “Dr Chamberlain wants another set of pictures of your wounds when you change your bandages tomorrow. So far, you are still cleared for light duty. Think you can take a detour up to Seanachie Bay?”

“As long as the ice holds, I think so,” Francis nodded.

“Good, Keep the phone charged, we’ll call if there’s new issues to check.” With that, Chief cut the connection.

Francis closed the laptop before he shifted over to allow Séarlas to sit next to him on the trailer. “Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute has some great researchers, and many resources my agency does not have. Hopefully they can shed some light on the aquatic life population.”

“It is good to have many eyes in the hunt.” The seal-man hefted himself up on the pallet in a graceful move. “You and your pod have completed much that this one could not. The songs here are not of despair, but do wander in confusion.”

“Even if I don’t understand your songs, that is something I would not have been able to find without you,” Francis stretched his leg to ease the ache there. “Do you want to stop here for the night, to see if you can hear more?”

“Aye, and to dig in for the storm to come,” Séarlas pulled the pouch of high wind anchors from under the pallet. “The wind is shifting.”

Francis nodded, “If it is a bad blow, would you like to share my shelter?”

Séarlas turned to look over his shoulder, considering, before answering with a small smile, “This one would gladly accept your hospitality.”

Covering his sudden rush of shyness by assisting in tying down the snowmobile and the trailer, Francis wondered if he had moved too fast. It would be tight quarters in the trailer with both of them, but if the winds were anything like the last storm he had weathered, the additional body heat would be welcome. Francis stowed the gear that would not be harmed in the weather under the trailer, strapped to the runner supports. 

They had just cleaned up after a quick supper (Séarlas was still curious about the self-heating individual meal packets) when the wind began to pick up. The seal man rolled to secure the hatches on windward side, “Quickly, the pitch is rising to be fierce.”

Locking the hatches, they shifted into more comfortable positions. Francis worried about the wind pitch, but the anchors seemed to be fast. He sighed, “Nights like these, I remember my great-grandmother’s stories more clearly.”

“Would you share one of them?”

“Mostly they were fairy tales and legends, though she would tell them as if they happened to one of our family members,” Francis stopped, turning his head to look at Séarlas. “But now that I have met you, maybe she was not telling fancies to entertain us.”

“Your ancestor told tales of my like?” he chuckled. “This one is not so old as all that.”

“I rather hope she wasn’t talking about you, specifically,” Francis blushed, but shook his head. “I should start out like she did. When she and my great-grandda were married, they came to Canada straight away, as he had a place on Prince Edward Island. Her folks were adamant that they stay near the shore. Great-grandda was a fisherman, so it was no hardship for him to promise to keep her by the sea.”

“The tale she told of _her_ parents finding each other began when her father, lost from his kith and kin, blew in off the water one stormy night. When the storm broke, her mother searched the strand for flotsam useful to the family, and found a man bare of foot but wrapped in a sealskin coat.” Unconsciously, Francis dropped into Gran’s cadence of storytelling, with traces of her accent creeping into his voice, remembering how he had first heard the tales. “For all that he could not speak a word she could understand, she brought him to the house of her father. Passing a year and a day with the family, the stranger healed, mended nets, and eventually went to sea with the menfolk, helping bring in many a fine catch. When he had learned enough of the local tongue, the stranger asked permission to court his rescuer. The arrangement was agreed upon, for though he had come to them with only the clothes on his back and the strength of his arms, he did not stint in his share of work. He had asked for three days before the wedding to prepare, and returned with a bride-gift of a fine gold necklace.”

When Francis paused, frowning, Séarlas murmured, “And all he asked in return was that she bear and care for his children, and help him protect his coat.” Francis was wide-eyed as he nodded silently, and Séarlas continued, “This is one path the cousins may have taken to survive what is thinning the ranks of the pods. Going to housen for a season or ten when the currents turn against us is a long tradition. That this one had found another who knows the songs may make it easier to find them. Are there more of your kin about to help?”

“Not quite this far north, as most of the family is either still close to the Island or scattered around the southern shores of Hudson Bay.” He paused, “Odd, now that I think of it, most of the family either lives on the sea or near enough to walk there in a day. There were a few of the family who strayed off to the prairies, but we don’t hear from them unless they come back,” and Francis’s brow furrowed, “and they head out to the boats as soon as they can.” 

“Parts of your pod go beyond the reach of your songs?” Séarlas asked, his voice sharp.

“Yeah, that’s one way to put it,” Francis nodded in thought, before smiling, “unless you count Tractor Jack, but that is a completely different story.” He sobered, “When l left university, I joined the RCMP. Training in the middle of Saskatchewan was bearable, but in the end, that wasn’t a good fit for me. I thought it might be the duties, but looking back, my assignments were rarely on the water,” he murmured. “When I was near a shore, it was freshwater, besides…” He shook his head, dismissing his recollections, “but back to the first tale. I found other stories about the selkie folk of Orkney after I went to university. Some were just visiting, but many were there to live, whether it was to learn about the land or even take a mate. After I heard the calls of the grey seals, I asked my mother about them. Mum would shrug when the subject came up, but she only said ‘Gran was always telling us we needed to have the salt in our breath’, so maybe she made it true by the telling.”

“It could happen, and has, but if you _are_ kin,” Séarlas chuckled with a small smile, “It is not so close as to be proscribed.” He then tucked his head down on his arm as if to sleep.

Francis turned off the lantern, but sleep was a long way off.

Though the rest of the journey was not hampered by storms, Séarlas joined Francis in the evenings, sharing the pallet and his warmth. By the end of the patrol, he had been curled around the seal-man in the mornings. It occasionally worried him that he was becoming so entranced so soon, until Séarlas smiled at him, and everything seemed normal.

Nearing the rocky outcrop where they first met, Séarlas’s smile seemed sad. “How long before you are out again?”

“It depends on what the doctor says about my healing, but it could be as soon as two days from now,” Francis turned to him, “I’m likely to be given another area to patrol, but would you want to,” he ducked his head, “It might be helpful to your search to see another part of the,” he stumbled to a stop when Séarlas put his hand on Francis’s arm.

“Yes, this one would travel with you to see how the rest of the pods have fared,” he smiled up at Francis. “If this one is not here, listen for the songs.”

~~~~

Dr Chamberlain was quite thorough in her examination, to the point she pulled him into the clinic before he had the chance to change or even shower, much to his embarrassment. 

“Doc, is there something you want to tell me?” he asked, getting worried about the great lengths she was taking, even going so far as to collect trace evidence from his clothes, getting scrapings from under his nails, and new hair and skin samples.

“Could be nothing,” she grumbled as she bagged and tagged what she collected. “But you had some interesting traces last time you came in.” Dr Chamberlain held up a tablet with something green on a microscope slide displayed on the screen, “This was in your hair, but the seaweed isn’t local. It actually has some excellent hyper-coagulant properties, without the allergen markers I’m used to seeing.”

Francis stared at the image, shaking his head. “Unless it was on the rocks when I fell, I have no idea where it came from.” Again, it was not a lie; he did not know where Séarlas had gotten the poultices he used.

“Tch,” Dr Chamberlain put the tablet away, “Too bad that, we could use it more often, if it can be cultivated.” She waved him off, “Go on, report in, we’ve got more news on the first samples you brought in.”

Francis waffled between a shower and the debrief, until he picked up his parka. The pong it exuded made his decision easier - and nearly tempted him to strip down in the laundry before showering. 

Half an hour later, he was clean, and as polished as they got at the base, which had been the right decision. Chief had a visitor in his office. “MacKenzie, come in - this is Juno Hayreddîn, from Woods Hole. She’s got a possible answer to your fish population question. Dr Hayreddîn, Officer MacKenzie is one of our senior agents on the ice.”

After they shook hands, Dr Hayreddîn brought out her tablet, “The problem isn’t ocean warming or current fluctuations, but radiation poisoning.” At Francis’s shocked inhalation, she continued, “It’s not enough to affect the fish, yet - but also not enough for us to pinpoint the source. Unfortunately, it’s just enough that it might affect the reproduction rates of the harp seals, considering the levels found in the cod, herring and halibut samples we have. We’ll know more after a broader sample.” She continued with her report, detailing the alarming levels of radiation in a previously unstudied area.

Francis nodded, his mind reeling. _Séarlas had mostly been eating what I brought on patrol, but what was he eating before we met? What about now?_ He missed much of the conversation between his superior and the researcher, when he murmured, “I have to get back on patrol.”

Chief looked him over, “All right, fine. Rest tonight, and I’ll have the trailer kitted out for another patrol. Dr Hayreddîn will likely want to get the samples you brought back tested as well.”

That evening, he went over his pack, making sure he had everything ready for patrol, and worried about the food issue. When he had gone out last time, the quartermaster had supplied enough cold-weather individual meal packs for one person for two weeks, with only a few extra in case he was delayed. Sharing with Séarlas had been something Francis had not thought twice about. 

However, they had both been supplementing the IMPs with foraging. Though Séarlas had been in the region less than a year, Francis was not willing to risk his health, and searched for another solution. He would be supplied well enough for himself, but he could not let Séarlas continue to fish for supplementary rations. 

There were civilian versions of the governments issued meals, but getting them before he left on patrol was an issue. Overnight shipping was not an option for their remote location. He was in the midst of planning a raid on the quartermaster’s stores with the idea of ordering replacements to be shipped in the fastest manner while he was out when there was a knock at the door.

Dr. Chamberlain stepped in before Francis could stop her, holding a finger to her lips. Once the door was shut, she said, “I got your lab work back, and when we got the preliminary report back from Woods Hole, I ran the tests again. You were eating locally-caught fish on the last patrol, yeah?”

He nodded, surprised. 

“You’ve got a non-negligible but not yet dangerous amount of strontium in your system,” Dr Chamberlain told him. She waited for him to absorb that fact before she continued. “However, you haven’t gained weight like I would expect from someone who was eating everything the quartermaster issued, in addition to the amount of fish needed to get these readings, while covering the patrol you did,” she held up her hand to forestall his attempt to account for the discrepancy, “and no, you are not going to explain it to me. What I am going to do _officially_ is request you check the Titian Light emergency shelter on this patrol. You are going to report on what of the supplies have expired or been damaged.”

Francis blinked at her, and nodded, “I would not expect much of it to be, but you never know if someone used the shelter without reporting it.”

“Good boy,” she patted his arm, then pulled a shielded envelope out of the pocket of her lab coat. “These are dosimeters, I want you to wear one every day on patrol. Note the beginning and ending coordinates and the dates on each of the ones you use. I’m also having Seamus add a Geiger monitor unit to your equipment, to see if there’s anything above the ice we can track. Good hunting, Francis.” She slipped out the door.

He looked over the instructions for the dosimeters, noting the use of one per day… and she had left him twice as many as he would need for what was now, with the addition of the check on the lighthouse storm shelter, a three-week patrol. There were also two lanyards in the envelope.

 _She knows something, but what? How much does she know?_ He fretted over the question as he finished packing for a longer patrol to include the lighthouse point. Turning out the lights to sleep, his mind wandered over more questions. When did _non-negligible but not yet dangerous levels_ of radioactive material become dangerous? How were the fish exposed? Where were the toxins introduced? How was he going to help Séarlas without exposing his existence?

As he slipped from awake to sleep, his worries focused on his trail companion, and he dreamed.

~~~~~

Even though his new patrol circuit covered a different quadrant, Francis still began by going to the outcrop where he had fallen - had it just been a month ago? The close quarters of the last patrol meant that they had spoken a great deal of their home lives when not engaged in the active study of the seal pods. 

He had just shut off the engine of the snowmobile and unshipped his cane when Séarlas hove into view, “ _Cad é mar atá tú?_ ”

“Not so well, I’m afraid. The doctor at the base is worried about the amount of possible poisons I accumulated on patrol,” Francis said as he limped toward his companion. “The way she presented the problem to me, makes me worry more about your exposure.”

Séarlas dropped his flirtatious manner, “What manner poisons did they find?”

Francis pulled a lanyard from his pocket, “Radioactive. This is a dosimeter - it will measure the amount of exposure we get from just the environment. I’ve got a plan to feed us without hunting, as the fish seem to be carrying the radioactive isotopes.”

“That phrase is unknown to this one,” Séarlas examined the dosimeter before looping the lanyard around his upper arm. 

“Erm,” Francis shook his head, “I don’t suppose you know the Aolepān Aorōkin M̧ajeļ testing area.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose in thought, trying to explain atomic theory to someone whose language references took odd turns. “They say the area is still dangerously active.”

The seal man asked, “Is it that thee can map it?” Switching on the tablet, Francis had the map center on the atoll. Séarlas hissed, with a shake of his head, before pointing out, “Cousins have this one here.” He pointed out the south island of New Zealand. “Their songs told us of many uncleftish uprisings there.” 

Francis nodded, “I… think I follow. You are familiar with the symptoms?”

“As much as one who has only learned the songs, but not witnessed with their own senses. It would fit the traces this one has found.” Séarlas thought a moment, “Thee has a map of our travels, yes?”

“Yes, I have the routes here,” Francis said, switching the map to their patrols. 

Séarlas traced the routes without touching the screen, “This one has been on the edges, here, since the sun returned to the sea,” he pointed to the Northwest Passage. “The fish have not changed their manner, but the seals thinned out beginning here.” He tapped the map just east of Neerlonakto Island.

Francis nodded, “So, since autumn - that’s not too long. I don’t have a way to measure your exposure before we met. There’s safe levels, in humans, but I still worry.” He put a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “If you become ill, I don’t want to send you away, but all of the ways I can think of to get you proper treatment would involve telling at least the doctor at the base.”

“Find the source of illness for the whole of the pods, then we will worry about this one’s health,” Séarlas gripped Francis’s shoulder in return. “If nothing else presents as an answer, we will return to the question.”

Still not a satisfactory answer to Francis’s mind, but he had no others at the moment. “Any road, I worry about you fishing, now. We will be going to the lighthouse on Titian Point, and as far as the official records will indicate, I will be taking inventory and documenting the state of the supplies in the emergency shelter.” He pulled up the map of the area on the tablet. “The shelter was the keeper’s house, before the system was automated. It is supposed to be stocked for one person up to two months, but not everyone reports when they use the shelter.”

“The supplies have the almost-penguin stew?” Séarlas asked. 

“I am not sure, but I did ask the quartermaster to make half of our IMPs the roast chicken.” Francis smiled, “I also brought the biscuits you liked last time.” He had brought two packages of them, his entire stock until the next shipment next month, ignoring that small voice asking him what he thought he was doing.

The addition of the Geiger counter to the instrument packet was nearly negligible to their travel; it added less than a tenth of a kilo to the weight of the trailer, was set to automatically record the conditions without input from Francis, and the nightly report when he uploaded the days data to the station did not add an appreciable lag. What it did do, however, was cause Dr Chamberlin to join the weekly vidcall from Chief a fortnight into their trip, when they were two days out from the lighthouse.

“The readings are showing you are getting closer to a possible location for the source of the radiation, and preliminary triangulation puts it _in_ the bay, about five klicks off Titian Point,” Chief said. “Woods Hole has been notified, as has the CNSC, so you may well see some investigating ships. Your primary role is still the seal survey, though.”

“Your personal readings are not yet dangerous,” Dr Chamberlain added. In his peripheral vision, Francis noticed Séarlas leaning forward at the doctor’s comment. She continued, “Right now, getting you out of the area will be enough to reverse the levels, but there’s still the shelter check. Just in case, you have some medications in the first aid kit. Magnesium carbonate is best if you start getting unusual alimentary tract symptoms, and potassium iodide is the standard for most minor airborne exposures, but anything else would have to be administered here.”

“How… well, how _much_ would be more than minor?” Francis asked, using all of his willpower to not look away from the screen.

“Depends on your mass and fitness level, but in your case, as long as you aren’t going to be showering in liquid radwaste, it would take a couple of months at your current exposure levels. I’ll let you know if the numbers change significantly.” Dr Chamberlain’s explanation soothed the edges of worry that had knotted up in Francis’s chest, but not the whole of it.

After signing off, Francis frowned as he put away the laptop. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get a better answer for your exposure rates.”

Séarlas nodded, “Tis enough to have a part of the answer for now, though this one does wonder if your healer is one of the shore-singers.” At Francis’s expression of confusion, he continued, “Her voice is… she has the tone of command without fear, but not quite coercion.”

“We all call it the Mum Voice,” Francis said with a confused smile.

“Hah! You have a proper thought for it!” Séarlas chuckled.

~~~~

All along their path to Titian Point, the seal populations had been thinning in an alarming manner. Francis noted the ship from from Woods Hole and the HMCS _Flin Flon_ off the coast. When he pointed them out to Séarlas, the seal-man took to the shadow of the snowmobile or the trailer. 

“So far, I’ve seen no indication they’ve seen you, but they also are probably reading the transponder from the snowmobile, and not looking our way closely.” Francis did a quick scan of the horizon after the last count check. “If we see anything that doesn’t look official, might be a good idea to take extra precautions.”

“There is another - “ Séarlas’s nose scrunched as he waved his hand, stirring the air, “ah, engine-thing-noise besides the two seen.” Francis stomped on the thought that Séarlas’s thinking face was adorable, as the sealman continued, “It is farther distant, and a higher growl, but… “ he tilted his head, listening, “not as smooth as these.”

Francis nodded, and searched the horizon again, “That sounds like it could be a smaller boat, poorly maintained, which would account for it avoiding the patrol ship. If they haven’t kept up their registration in addition to letting the engine get out of tune, that would be enough for them to be detained by official representatives.” He secured the field glasses and came around to Séarlas’s position on the far side of the trailer. “The fact that another transponder is not showing up on the map makes me think it might be more than just a small-time fisherman who needs a good haul to get all of their paperwork up-to-date.”

“Pah, such worship of rules,” Séarlas grumbled as he helped secure the equipment.

“Mostly to keep everyone safe, since humans cannot hear the songs to guide them,” Francis chuckled. He had not mentioned the music he heard in dreams, not yet.

~~~~~

The lighthouse was visible by the end of the week, just as their food supplies were running out. “We should make it by tonight, bunk there, and resupply before taking the count out to the edge of the local harvesting area.” He knelt to show him the map at the same time the pointed in the direction he intended to drive. “Is the next haulout hole the same distance from the rocks?” 

Séarlas tilted and rotated his head, before pointing, “The ice is thinning there,” and adjusting the angle of his hand to delineate a new course, “but a passage is there. Both are also closer to the bad sounding engine.”

“Right,” Francis frowned, and reached out for Séarlas’s hand, “You…” he nearly asked if Séarlas was up for the swim, but shook his head, as the seal man clasped his hand. “Be careful.”

Séarlas pulled him forward, wrapping an arm around Francis’s shoulders, their joined hands between their chests, “Take care for thy safety as well.”

Francis had automatically wrapped his free arm around Séarlas’s shoulders; the change in his companion’s pronoun caused him to hold him closer for a handful of heartbeats before slowly releasing him. Then the seal man disappeared into the large hole in the ice.

He slowed the snowmobile as soon as he saw the next haul out hole. There was a mid-sized ship in the distance, still closer than he liked, in a direction where there was no pingback on his map tablet. Something nagged his suspicions, making him pass the spot he where he was to meet Séarlas by several hundred meters. 

Doing so put the thinning spring ice between himself and the unknown vessel. A tuneful whistle caught his attention, and a glance towards the haul out made his heart stutter. Séarlas had his head and shoulders out of the hole, bracing to heave himself onto the ice. Francis whistled back, sharp and short, in warning; his friend whistled back an affirmation and slid back into the water. Francis could just make out the top of his head against the rim of the haul out, his hair still wet and plastered against his skull. He hoped anyone else looking Séarlas’s direction would only see a dark, wet rock among other dark, wet rocks.

Setting up to take the tally of the seals to the northwest of his position, Francis noticed the transponderless ship came about to advance on his position. A snatch of tune floated through Francis’s head, and he whistled along with it, _caution, caution, hunter about_. At this point, he knew he would have to recount this pod, as his attention was focused on the approaching boat, while appearing to ignore it.

That was much harder to do when the tender was unshipped with a compliment of six. Francis could not tell if they were armed, but the number of men would have been excessive even if he was not still injured. He whistled absently as he opened the channel to the base. When Officer James came on line, Francis said, “Got some unknowns without a transponder here.”

Seamus confirmed, “Signal clear, coordinates logged, monitoring.” before going silent. Francis took a calming breath; if he disappeared, at least there would be a record of what happened, and where it began.

From the looks of things, it might also be where it ended. They were headed straight for the thinning ice, and not slowing at all. They hit the edge, and the sharp prow of the skiff plowed straight through it. Francis scrambled to start the snowmobile, intending to head for the rocks, when the back of his head and neck was showered in pain. He lost his footing as the ice shifted and his head hit the ice.

The shock of the icy water shook off the haze, and the instinct to breathe in nearly overcame his training to hold his breath underwater. Séarlas’s arms were around him, pulling him away from the shadow of the boat and the sinking snowmobile trailer rig. They swam for the rocky outcrop that was the base of the lighthouse, but it seemed to be too far to Francis. His chest ached with the need to breathe.

They were now in open water, and Séarlas moved towards the surface to breathe. Just short of the air, something disturbed the water’s surface. They dove to avoid the projectiles, and Séarlas turned Francis’s face to his. Sealing their lips together, Séarlas gave Francis a breath, before swimming them at high speed towards the lighthouse.

He dove deeper, instead of going up to the shoreline, and swam them into a cave. After a few sharp turns they surfaced in darkness. Séarlas was breathing as heavily as Francis when they reached a rock shelf. The echoes of the water made the cave seem enormous in the absence of sight. “We can rest here, but I fear I have come to the end of my reserves,” Séarlas wheezed.

“Séarlas?” Francis fumbled for the flashlight in his pocket, after hauling himself out of the water. The light showed the seal man’s complexion to be grey, rather than the flush of exertion. “We need to get you out of the water, and in to treatment.”

Séarlas pushed up on his hands, but was shaky as he heaved himself up. “Take care of the hunters, first.” 

Francis ground his teeth as he helped Séarlas out of the water. “Yeah, okay - fine.” Priorities, duty first, but for the first time since high school, he rebelled. With Séarlas looking so ill, it was hard for him to follow protocol. He swept the cave with the flashlight. Stairs were carved into the wall on the far end of the dry section. Near the stairs there were some stowage chests, but there was not much else in the tall void in the rock.

“I will be fine here, there is air stirring from the top of the cave.” Séarlas grasped Francis’s arm, “Thy pod needs to know what happened. The poison is here, in the bay.”

“Yes, I need to get backup out here, will you be all right?” Francis asked.

“I am not so ill as to pass into the chasm,” he answered, clasping the back of Francis’s neck, pulling him close enough to touch their foreheads together. “Go, mo chridhe. I will rest here.”

He breathed in the closeness a moment, then sighed, “Sooner I get contact with the base, the sooner I can get you help.” Francis left a chemical light with Séarlas, before heading up the stairs. There was no railing to keep him from falling, but there was a rope line secured with pitons in the wall. Aiming the beam of the flashlight up the stairs, he started up, noticing they continued past the dome of the cave… really far up, actually. 

He kept his eyes on the stairs before him, because they were worn, and because if he looked down at Séarlas resting on the cave floor, he was not sure he would not rush back to check on his - Francis stopped that line of thought, because he had not gotten to the point of defining what they were to each other. 

As quickly as he ascended, the stairs seemed to go on forever, until the hewn rock gave way to masonry, and then a small room. There were no light fixtures, with a heavy layer of dust on the sparse furnishings, and a single door. When he tried it, Francis found that it was unlocked, and led to the back of a small storeroom. 

He recognized the room, but had not realized the door had been there the last time he came out to help stock the emergency shelter. The seams fitted between the shelf units, but now that he had been on the other side of it, he saw how the door was opened from the storeroom. This section had been rotated last autumn, and it looked like nothing had been used this winter. He closed the door behind him, after making sure he could open it again, and moved out into the main living area.

Whatever else the polluters had done in the area, it seemed they had not used the shelter for anything. All of the supplies were still in place, with the solar battery array nearly fully charged, and the emergency radio was intact. The door was latched, but not locked; Francis took a moment to secure the doors and windows before cranking up the radio.

Switching to the radio to the base frequency, Francis reported the incident, and requested medical support. His voice may have edged over into _demanding_ medical support, but he was having a bit of vertigo. Touching the back of his head, his hand came away bloody, and he remembered the pain that preceded his fall into the ice. “10-78, code niner niner niner, charlie november sierra charlie response team required…” he managed to say before he greyed out. 

Officer James was still on the radio repeating a request for location when he came back to himself moments later. Francis was able to give the identification number for the emergency shelter, thinking whoever shot him was not familiar with the designation. It was a slim chance, but the _Flin Flon_ was supposed to be monitoring the situation as well. 

He rested his forehead on the desk, just for a moment.

The next thing he knew, Doc Chamberlain had his head cradled in her hands, her fingers carefully moving over his skull, like she would when she had checked for fractures. “Stay still. I haven’t found any shot in your wounds, but there’s a lot of them.

He mumbled, “s’okay, mostly just cold…” then he remembered with a start why he was here and not under the ice, “... my heart…”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and asked in an undertone, “the seaweed?”

He nodded, and looked around, noting the only other person in the room was Sgt Rampersad-Padmanabhan, and took a leap of faith. “Just us, right?”

“Just us with salt in our breath in here, the investigative team is taking care of the suspects outside,” she responded. “There is another?”

Francis managed a weak smile, “One.” He stood, and managed to keep his balance this time. “The fewer folks in the landpod that know, the better.” Leading the others to the storage room, he opened the door to the stairs down. 

Chief took a quick look at the stairs before he turned to leave the room, “I’ll bring the litter, we can wrap them in blankets for transport.” 

“Wait, _priye_ ,” she turned to Francis, “Selkie?”

Francis shook his head, “Mer, leopard seal.”

“I’ll bring the dolly harness set as well,” Sgt said as he headed out.

Dr Chamberlin peered down the stairs, “Let me see your eyes again.” She checked his pupil dilation and asked, “No more dizziness?” When he shook his head no, she nodded. “You will tell me the moment you need to stop to rest.” It was not a question, and this time, her Mum Voice had an extra push to it.

“Yes’m,” Francis nodded again before the two of them descended the staircase.

Séarlas had moved further from the grotto pool since Francis had gone up to the lighthouse, but not terribly far. Francis dashed down the last dozen steps faster than he should have and instead of kneeling by his companion’s side, he collapsed beside him. The sealman’s colour had improved, but only slightly. He roused when Francis touched his shoulder, murmuring “ _A chuisle mo chroí_ ,” with a small smile.

“I’ve brought Dr Chamberlin, _m'eudail_.”

“Did thee have a choice?” Séarlas replied with a weak chuckle.

“The only order she gave was to not overexert myself,” Francis levered himself up to a sit beside Séarlas’s hip, and grasped his hand.

“Because breaking your neck before I can treat your injuries is _such_ a good idea.” She crouched beside her patient and pointed at the dosimeter still looped around his bicep, “May I?”

He nodded, adding, “This one did not eh... ‘shower in radwaste’ but may have swam in it.”

She shook her head as she checked the little card, “We won’t know for certain until this is developed, but considering your initial presentation, I would say it is likely.” She frowned then, as she listened to his lungs through her stethoscope. “Have you had any bouts of dizziness or loss of sense of place?”

“Not as such, but this one found, in the last few days, that searching for the holes in the ice to be… almost painful.” Séarlas frowned in thought, “Not like when as a pup to learn what was where, but as if the sense was a strained muscle.” He looked up at her in confusion.

“It is a known sign, but strained, not torn?” When he nodded, she smiled in a reassuring manner, “That is good, it means that treatment will likely be successful.”

Francis let out a sigh in relief, “The sooner we get him home, the better, yeah?”

“It’s going to be a while before you are out of care, but soonest begun is soonest done.” She then frowned at Francis, who was shrugging out of his jacket, “Why are you stripping, he’s not well enough for that.”

“How many of the landpod are topside?” He asked, taking off his hoodie.

“Ah, right - blankets will cover most of him but naked shoulders might get noticed by the investigative officers.” She nodded, and turned back to busy herself with her medkit.

Francis briefly held the sweatshirt in his hands, before he presented it to Séarlas. “Keep it safe for me?”

He was rewarded with a smile, “As long as you dinnae expect me to be able to carry your pups.”

Helping Séarlas into the hoodie, he murmured, “That’s what adoption is for.”

**Author's Note:**

> Translations in the hover text are approximate, but if there are any that are hideously wrong, let me know.
> 
> Get Your Man is a webcomic that has been loaded into Schrödinger's canon, with a lot of fireworks and confetti. Originally created by @kamikami. The comic can be found [here](https://getyourmancomic.tumblr.com/), but be warned, this is a story about humans (and other sentient beings) who like to be naked in company With Intent.


End file.
